


Rotgut

by HellenHighwater



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, all fluff, no pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 04:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15187073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellenHighwater/pseuds/HellenHighwater
Summary: For the prompt: "Fic needed: the older Vuvalini women drinking Max under the table."All fluff.





	Rotgut

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this contemporaneously with my other Mad Max fic and apparently forgot to post it back then. So here it is! Drunk Max.

Max came back in a little less than eight days.

Honestly, Furiosa had expected longer, if ever, but she hadn’t really given it much thought. Between recuperating from her injuries and trying to assemble something like a functioning society from the wreckage Immortan Joe left behind, it’s a wonder she’d had time to think about him at all. As always, he went one better than what she expected and not only returned, but returned in one of the vehicles the war party had left behind, stocked full of valuable parts and scraps pulled from the cars at the pass. They hadn’t had time to send out a salvage team, not with so much else to do, so Max’s cargo was a boon. His presence was also a boost to the Sister’s flagging spirits, who were only just beginning to realize what it meant to run a clan. Cheedo, revitalized by their protector’s reappearance, took it upon herself to plan a welcome-back dinner.

Max had had time to wash away the worst of the road-grime and blood he’d been caked in when he showed up, making careful use of their precious water to do so. He was still in need of a bath, but the women appreciated that he’d made the effort. In the time it took for him to clean up, they’d gathered in the Vault around a table Capable had dragged in three days ago. They were a noisy group, clanging together dishes made of scrap material and laughing at each other. By the standards of the Citadel, it’s a feast: fresh greens, fruit, bean soup, and even a bit of goat meat. The three remaining Vuvalini had made use of strange spices on the meat, and it smelled like heaven. Furiosa sat calmly at the table, reading an inventory list as Capable, the Dag, and Cheedo bustled between cabinets, cooking pots, and place settings. The Vuvalini heckled or encouraged the girls from their side of the table, thoroughly entertained by the burst of energy that’s caught up the former Wives.

The assault on his senses nearly overwhelmed Max as he entered the room, quiet as ever, and he had to pause near the door to collect himself. The girls didn’t notice, and the Vuvalini were kind enough to pretend they didn’t, but Furiosa lifted her eyes from the paper to rest on him. Her gaze was steadying, strong, and he could breathe easier under it. He was just about to move into the room when a small hand caught him around the bicep.

“Look what I found!” It was Toast entering the room behind him, and it was only luck and the Sprog appearing in his vision on his other side that kept him from attacking out of sheer startlement.  He was too nervy for this vivid crowd, and he wants to turn and flee. But Toast’s grip is strong, despite it’s size, and he’d have to pull hard to break free. She didn’t look at him as she tightened the vice on his arm, lifting aloft a bottle in her free hand. Old Joe’s stash of booze!”

It looked to be a bottle of moonshine, more valuable per ounce than guzzoline. The Vuvalini and the Sisters let up a cheer. Alcohol was a rare treat.

Toast dragged him, half unwilling, to the two open seats next to Furiosa. The one beside the Imperator had the best view of the room, but  some vestigial instinct made him wait to sit until Toast and the rest of the women were settled on the bench before he joined them.

After that it was a blur of food and chatter. Mostly the women were content to talk among each other, and the few comments directed his way could be answered with a grunt, shake of the head, or a few blessedly short words. When Dolla, the eldest of the Vuvalini, lifted the bottle to his cup suggestively, he nodded and raised his hand, fingertips an inch apart. He’d normally never indulge in anything that might dull his senses, but he was safe enough in the Citadel with Furiosa.  He would have one small cup.

The alcohol was strong and he sipped it gently, watching Dolla and Vendetta (the youngest but somehow most wrinkled of the Vuvalini) toss it back by the mouthful.

Furiosa watched them all, like a mother dog eyeing her gathered pups. The Sisters needed this break.  A lot had been asked of them in the days since their return, and they were coping as well as could be expected. The chance to unwind a bit in the company of friends was a welcome one. The Vuvalini were as they always were, making the most of every moment. At this particular moment, that seemed to be by refilling Max’s cup every time he glanced away.

Max himself was more relaxed than she’d ever seen him, shoulders hunched but loose. He kept his face tilted down towards his plate, forearms braced around it protectively, but Furiosa could see him following the conversation through his lashes, and every so often his mouth would tick upwards when one of the girls said something funny. He ate like he’d been starving, which he probably had, and she suspected he was going through the moonshine faster than he realized. With a metabolism as burnt out as his was, every drop of alcohol was going a long way.

The Vuvalini were as clear-headed as ever: They’d brewed all manner of things at the Green Place, and most of it was a lot stronger than Immortan’s rotgut. They giggled like children between themselves, enjoying the joke of Max’s bottomless cup.

Max was getting more and more relaxed as the alcohol hit and the meal progressed. His posture opened up and his head lifted. He was actually a large man, but he hunched so badly you’d never guess. Beside him Toast looked smaller than ever, her foot tucked halfway under his thigh and her head pillowed on the Dag’s shoulder.  The Dag was gesturing wildly as she told some story no one understood, but the Vuvalini watched indulgently, nodding when it seemed appropriate. Capable and Cheedo were sitting with their heads together, whispering and shooting glaces towards Max and Furiosa. Every so often they were overtaken with giggles. Furiosa elected to ignore it.

Max’s hand, fidgeting on the table, dropped down to fidget on Toast’s knee instead. He didn’t seem to notice, but Toast glanced up at his face, pleased. All four of the girls had come to view him as some sort of bizarre older brother, and she’d heard them worrying about him a few times since he’d left.

Dolla topped up Max’s cup again, when he lifted his head to look at Furiosa. There was a glint in his eyes, and his brow was clear. It was odd to see him so relaxed. He gave her a slow, transforming smile, and then toppled sideways, his head landing with a little thunk in Furiosa’s lap. The table had gone silent as soon as he’d raised his head, so his hilariously high-pitched squeak of surprise was perfectly audible. After a second he let out a low moan, a long deep ‘murrrrr’ like an engine settling, and the women burst into laughter. Furiosa herself just gave the Vuvalini a steady look, humor deep in her eyes.

“How much of that has he had?”

Vendetta lifted up the bottle: about two-thirds was gone. “Nearly five cups!”

They laughed and raised their cups again, tossing the moonshine back easily. If Max had had five, they’d had at least seven, and were showing no ill effects.

On her lap, Max made a displeased noise deep in his throat. She suspected no one else could hear it. “No. One cup.”

Furiosa patted his shoulder consolingly. “The old hags were refilling it when you weren’t watching.”

The Vuvalini cackled at her while Max made another unhappy grunt. His hand snuck up and tangled with her fingers on his shoulder. He tugged, tipping his face up with an urgent expression.  Furiosa bent down obligingly. In what was clearly meant to be a whisper, he said, “Think ’m drunk.” His eyes were wide with befuddled surprise, and Furiosa barked out an involuntary laugh. His eyes went wider, and she lost it, laughing unrestranedly. Vendetta peeked around the table to glimpse Max’s expression.

“Oh, the poor wee lamb!” She crooned, “We thought a such big man would be able to hold his booze!”

Max made a sound that sounded like 'nurrg’ and batted at Vendetta’s knee with his free hand. Furiosa suspected that Max could hold his alcohol just fine, normally, but he was still recovering from the road, and he’d lost a great deal of blood in the fight, both to Nux and herself. Still, a bit of booze wouldn’t do any harm. And anyway the Vuvalini would have drank him under the table even if he was in full fighting fit.

Pride sufficiently defended by his ineffectual assault on Vendetta’s knee, Max tucked back in to Furiosa’s lap. He tipped his head back and offered her a satisfied smile. She patted him again.

“Yes, Max, you proved her wrong. Nice work.”

She could hear Capable and Cheedo giggling at her. She ignored it. Dolla shot her a knowing look, which she ignored even more forcefully in favor of carding her fingers through Max’s dusty hair, surprisingly soft under the grime.

He lifted his feet and stuck them under Toast’s thigh, who squeaked before letting out an uncharacteristic giggle. Her own feet were still under Max’s leg, a complicated knot of limbs.

Max grinned again. It was a nice, if unfamiliar, look on him. “Very nice.” He echoed.

Furiosa nodded, smiling down at him. Around the table the women laughed and chattered, passing food and drinks between them. Max was a warm if somewhat uncomfortable weight in her lap. It was good to have him with them, safe. Yes. He was right.  It was very nice.


End file.
